


A Study in Human Psyche

by Ghosts_Writer



Series: The line between genius and madness [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternative Meeting, M/M, Study in Pink Au, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-14 16:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1273636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghosts_Writer/pseuds/Ghosts_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson was injured in Afghanistan. But how would things turn out if he had three years to prepare before he finally met Sherlock, under slightly different circumstances but at a hospital nonetheless?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. serial offender

**Author's Note:**

> Mixing up the fact that John had to change specialties after getting injured and the fact that Sherlock probably ended up in hospital a couple of times because of his drug problem, here's an alternative meeting.  
> It's set during A Study in Pink
> 
> And the usual: English in not my native language, I do think it's readable but if you want to correct me, please do.  
> Not beta-ed. Not brit-picked. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I have changed the title as it became obvious that the title was more suitable for the series and this was a better pick for the story. I'm currently working on the last chapter and then I'll go on the The Blind Banker, so yes, a lot more to come.

How do you tell the difference between psychiatric patients and their doctors? Easy, the doctors have keys.

There was a time when John H. Watson used to laugh at jokes like that. He even used to make them. That, however, changed about three years ago for two reasons. He stopped laughing except the polite “able to laugh about yourself” bit because he actually started to work at the psychiatric ward of St. Bart's Hospital three years ago. The other reason why he wouldn't laugh at that particular joke anymore was that quite simply it was true. 

There was a rumor that psychiatrist and psychologist alike choose these professions because actually, they're the craziest of them all, and frankly, looking at his collegues, and himself, John couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't at least partly true. Obviously, everybody had their baggage and there was a good chance that he was simply more tuned in to those issues now that he's working with them on a daily basis, but everybody here seemed a lot crazier than the rest of the population – and yes, that included doctors and nurses. 

He himself was not perfectly sane, either. Sometimes, when the dark thoughts became overwhelming, he'd chuckle to himself – which, honestly, isn't a very good sign. He'd chuckle because 15 years ago he'd never thought he'd end up here, hell four years ago he didn't think he'd end up here. 

He had finished med school and signed up for the RAMC. Going to places nobody would willingly go seemed like an adventure and John had always wanted his life to be an adventure. Afghanistan wasn't bad, not while he was there anyway. Not until that day he was shot. 

Then he found himself back in London, his military career over, a psychosomatic limp, PTSD nightmares and an intermittend tremor preventing him from practising the medicine he wanted. So, what to do? He could have tried living off the pension, and he did, but quickly even the small bedsit became too expensive. He had to work. However, the thought of working as a GP almost made John throw up. He thought of overflowing waiting rooms, children with running noses and hypochondriac elderly. No, that wasn't how he was going to spent the rest of his life. 

And then, during one of his useless therapy sessions it came to him. Psychiatry. He wasn't actually one of those doctors who thought that psychiatrist weren't real doctors. He knew the workings of the human brain, the mix of hormons, transmitters and psychological stressors. To be quite honest with himself, John had found it almost as fascinating as surgery. Plus, as a patient himself, he understood that these patients really did need the help.

So it came, that after changing specialities – which meant being the newbie again until he accumulated enough knowledge to be left treating on his own – John was now a psychiatrist at a secured ward.

The early shift had just started and the doctors were sitting together going through the files of the new patients to devide them off when Dr. Matthews sighed deeply.

“And he's back again. Took his time, this time around.” he threw the file onto the table and rubbed his hands over his face. “So, who wants to be tortured for nothing this time?”

John frowned as he heard similar groans from everyone looking at the file, nobody reading more than the name. His interest was certainly peaked. Reaching for it, Dr. Harris – Lara, the nice brunette John considered asking out since day one, touched his arm.

“Don't bother, John. He's a lost cause.”

Unfortunately none of them had figured out that if you wanted John Watson to do something, tell him not to do it.

“C'mon, it can't be that bad.” he threw her a charming grin and grabbed the file.

“No, it's worse. If you're lucky, all he'll say to you will be 'phone call'. If you're unlucky his brother will give a piece of his mind, which usually is something along the lines of 'don't lecture me on my brother if you ever want to work again'.” Lara mentioned conversationally. 

John frowned confused and opened the file. 

_Sherlock Holmes, date of birth 06.01.1981_

_Admitted 06.01.2000 – OD Cocaine – released 09.02.2000_  
Admitted 19.05.2001 – OD Cocaine and Methamphetamine – released 22.05.2001  
…

The list went on. Apparently this kid was admitted at least once a year because of overdose on some substance and released against medical advice as soon as he was conscious again until four years ago, then suddenly it stopped – until now. And that was all the file said. 

“There's nothing in here...” John muttered.

“That's because he never actually spoke to anyone.” Lara shrugged. “All he ever says is 'phone call', which we can't refuse him. He calls his brother and that one gets him out.”

“How about a court order?” John provided. “That kid's obviously a danger to himself and his brother doesn't seem to care.”

“Tried that.” Dr. Morris, the oldest of them mentioned. “Called the judge, as soon as I said the name Holmes the conversation was over. No way they get involved with that one, he said.”

John looked down at the file again. Holmes. Nope, not ringing any bell.

“You know, I think you should take this one.” Matthews grinned. “As a rite of passage so to say. We all had to deal with him at least once.”

“Don't be nasty, Jacob.” Lara said. “John, you don't need to, I can handle him.”

“No, that's fine, Lara. I can handle myself.” John smiled charmingly at her again and stood with the file. He didn't know what to expect as he limbed towards the room. He'd dealt with many junkies in his career, even more so in these last years. He's seen the city boys – cocaine – the utter wrecks – heroin – the stoners – dope - the medical professionals and career mom's – usually prescription drugs. 

So when he opened the door and fixed his gaze on designer shoes, a thick but elegant coat and a suit that probably cost more than three of John's paychecks, application method and substance in mind John knew exactly what kind this bloke was. 

The moment the door closed one word was thrown at the doctor. “Phonecall.”

John smirked as he dropped into the chair opposite the bed. “Why? So you can call your brother to come rescue you?”

For the first time cold grey eyes scanned John head to toe. 

“Or perhaps you just want to piss him off?” John thought he saw a slight smirk. “I'm not pretending that I know why you shoot up, you'd have to talk to me to figure that out. However I've got an idea and I'm barely wrong about these. It only takes one look to tell me that you're the typical younger brother. Always in his shadow, the underachiever. And now you want to call him? I just don't see you asking for his help. You want him to see you. You want him to be disappointed. I would even go so far to say that you OD on purpose just so he has to come and pick you up. Always just enough to get you admitted, never enough to actually threaten your life. You probably think you have it all under control. You're always in control of the situation, always smarter than everyone else. You're just a poor misunderstood boy.” John snorted as he noted something into his file. “I've got three of your type before breakfast.”

He looked up when there was movement on the bed. The man, who was sprawled across the mattress moments before now sat up, feet on the floor, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His dark curls fell into the pale and slightly sweaty face, dark rings surrounding his eyes, making them appear an even paler shade of grey-green than they probably were, lips still not quite twisted in a smirk. He made a move with his hand to tell John to continue. 

“That's very telling.” John mentioned through a grin. “That you want me to go on, that is. Like I said, lots of your type pass through here. They always think that they have it all under control, they're not like the others, they're not junkies. They could stop.” John snorted. “Do you believe you could stop?” As expected there was no reaction but a slightly raised eyebrow. “Interesting.” John assessed. “But then again, not really. They all do. There's barely an addict that walks in here who openly admits that they're addicts before weeks of therapy. Before they really get what withdrawal feels like. Like you, they're always pumped up on substitutes. We're not heartless bastards to make you go cold turkey, well, maybe I were if it didn't kill you.”

This time John saw the smirk for sure. So, this is how this boy wanted to go? Fine with him.

“I tell you what you are, because you'll be walking out of here in an hour anyway and I'm not afraid of your brother, whoever he is. You're not a misunderstood brother. You're not the unloved child.” John fixed him with a long glare before barely smirking. “You're an attention whore.”

The hands steepled under the Holmes' chin fell and there was a definite grin on his face as he looked at John. “Frailty of genius, doctor. It needs an audience.”

John chuckled. “You're a genius, then? Well, why don't you go ahead and impress me. Count pi to a hundred didgets or whatever it is you can do so amazingly well.”

“You didn't tell me your name. Not exactly good bedside manner, is it, doctor?” Holmes asked. 

“Trust me, calling my patients whores isn't either.” John grinned and settled back into the chair. “You're not going to stay, so why would you care about my name?”

“Maybe I want to know it so I can file a complaint against you.” Holmes offered. “You know, for calling me a whore.”

John held his gaze for a moment. “Nah, that's not it.”

Holmes took a deep breath and let his eyes wander over John once more. “Phonecall?”

John nodded slowly. He reached into his pocket, holding out his own mobile to the patient. “Go ahead. Some things never change, do they? Always relying on your brother.” 

“Manipulation isn't your strong suit, doctor.” Holmes mentioned, typing on the phone for a moment before giving it back. “Left or right shoulder?”

John raised an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

“Where were you shot, left or right shoulder?” Holmes asked but then waved a dismissive hand, lying back on the bed. “Left, I'd wager.”

“How did you...” John started but was cut off.

“Army doctor, obvious. So, your original speciality was surgery not psychiatry, you've been here for about three years, so you were invalided not too long before that. You started here when you were running out of money, Army pension is never enough to live off, least of all in London. Money's still tight. Changing specialities means starting on the bottom again, which means you haven't gone up above residency, which is payed poorly. You have a brother with a bit of money, but you won't ask for his help, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. Your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid.” Holmes looked at John with a gleam in his eyes. “That's what I'm so amazing at.”

John stared at the man with his mouth hanging slightly open. “How?”

“Your name?” Holmes smirked.

“Dr. John Watson.” he replied without thinking about it.

“Ordinary name.” Holmes muttered.

“Well, not everybody can be called Sherlock.” John retorted. “How did you do that?”

Holmes grinned and sat up again. “Your posture and hair cut says military, although it's grown out, so civilian for a while. You're a doctor, residency in your age means change of specialities. Obvious. Not that much need for psychiatrists in the Army anyway, so most likely surgeon.”

“How did you know I'm in residency?”

“Name tag.” Holmes grinned. John looked down and couldn't help the blush. Right. 

“What about that I have a brother?” John asked.

“Your phone. It's expensive, email enabled, mp3 player. You wouldn't waste money on it, so it's a gift. Next bit's easy, you know it already.”

John had pulled out his phone, turning it in his hand he saw it. “The encraving.”

“Harry Watson, obviously a family member giving you his old phone. Could be your father, but it's a young's man gadget. Most likely, brother. Now, Clara, who's Clara.” Holmes said, steepling his fingers again as he stood from the bed. “Three kisses says romantic attachment, expense of the phone says wife not girlfriend. This phone's new, the model's only six months old. So six months and he's giving it away? Marriage in touble then. If she left him, he'd have kept it, people do, sentiment but no, he wanted rid of it, he left her. He gave it to you that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're low on money, as is obvious from the state of your shoes, shirt and cane but you won't ask for his help that says you have a problem with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking.”

“How could you possibly know about the drinking?” John actually had to concentrate to shut his mouth after his question.

“Shot in the dark, good one, though. Power connection. Tiny scuff marks on the edge of it. Every night he goes to charge it but his hands are shaking. You never see those on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them.” Holmes grinned at the doctor.

“How do you know my limb is psychosomatic?”

Holmes exhaled slowly, as if annoyed by having to explain something that obvious. “It's really bad when you walk but when you got up from the chair to give me your phone you didn't seem to be in pain as if you've forgotten about it. That means it's at least partly psychosomatic. There was an actual injury but nothing as obvious as that limb. You rolled your shoulder and then flinched. I have to admit, it was a bit of a wide shot but I wanted to get your attention.” Holmes grinned again with a shrug. “I'm a whore for it, apparently.”

“Amazing,” John breathed, “that...was amazing.”

Holmes looked surprised. “Not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?” 

“Piss off.” Holmes looked even more surprised when John laughed. “Did I get anything wrong?”

“Well,” John started, “Harry did leave Clara, they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker.” 

“I didn't expect to be right about everything.” 

“Harry's short for Harriet.” John said with a grin as Holmes' face fell. 

“Harry's your sister. There's always something.” he muttered.

“Did I get anything wrong?” John asked.

“Nice try, Dr. Watson.” Holmes smirked and grabbed his coat. “Unfortunately I'm not looking for a therapist.”

“You are going to kill yourself.” John said. Suddenly he was more interested than just professionally. “At one point you miscalculate.”

Holmes grinned. “Oh, you needn't worry, doctor. I'm perfectly clean.”

John laughed. “The lab says otherwise.”

With another grin Holmes produced a test tube of blood from his coat pocket. “Swapped it. Unfortunately the A&E doctor on duty last night is a murderer and I needed a good excuse to be here.” He wiped over his eyes, his fingers coming away dirty with make-up from his pretend eye-rings. “I had to lay low until I'm out of the A&E, he's being arrested right now.” He walked towards the door, stopping to look back at John, who was too stunned to move. “You were interesting, though.” With a wink he opened the door and left.


	2. If Convenient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first encounter outside the hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's texts in italics  
> John's texts in italics and bold

“He told you the truth.” 

John looked up when Lara appeared at his desk. “Did he?”

She sat down, lowering her voice. “Dr. Serga was arrested. And the lab cross checked, the blood type didn't match Holmes.” She shook her head. “That bloke is unbelievable.”

John grinned. “Nah, he's brilliant. Serga treated him three times before. He wouldn't get suspicious of him coming in with enough cocaine in his blood to kill a horse. And who thinks to check the blood type.” John's grin widened. “Bloody brilliant.”

“He still is a junkie. They never change. He'll be back.” Lara stated but John thought he heard something else in her voice but professional pessimism so he chose not to answer.

“Are you busy tonight?” he asked instead, his confidence boosted after making Holmes talk. “We could have dinner.”

 

The dinner was going really well. Lara was smiling, touching his hand and John was thoroughly enjoying himself, when his phone beeped with a new text.

_She won't sleep with you tonight. SH_

John frowned at his phone, the number utterly unknown to him. He ignored it. “Wrong number.” he excused to Lara just as it beeped again.

_She will make an excuse based on professionalism but actually she'll keep you on the hook until it's clear where things are heading with the anaethestist she's dating. SH_

Once more John ignored the text. When Lara made excuses to go to the bathroom he received another.

_I could use your expertise both as a surgeon and a psychiatrist. SH_

_**Who the hell is this?** _

_Hardly a difficult deduction, Dr. Watson. Don't make me reassess your intelligence. SH_

_**Sherlock Holmes? ******_

_Very good, Dr. Watson. I reguire your assistence. SH_

_******How did you get my number? And why would I help you with anything?** ** ** _

_221B Baker Street. Come if convenient. SH_

_******Not convenient.** ** ** _

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

John snorted.

_Could be dangerous. SH_

John frowned, his resistence grumbling.

“Isn't it nice to get to know eachother outside of work?” Lara pulled John out of his thoughts when she sat back down. He forced a smile but the texts wouldn't leave his head. What if Holmes was using? What if John read about him overdosing in the paper in two days? Could he live with that? And what if that bloody brilliant bastard is as right about Lara as he was about John?

“Yeah...Lara, look, I know it's our first date but I'm not twenty anymore, so I don't want to waste time...are you seeing anyone else?” She didn't need to answer John's question, her face said everything.

“No, John...but I do think we should take it slow, you know, I wouldn't want to risk our professional relationship.” She obviously lied through her teeth.

John smiled bitterly. “Right, I gotta go.” He put a couple of notes to cover his food and drinks – deliberately not enough for the whole bill and left, ignoring her gaping expression. He'd live through hell come monday, but he didn't care. He had to make sure that genius mad man wouldn't get himself killed.

 

When John reached the adress – after swinging by his own flat for something that might proove essential – he frowned. There really wasn't anything looking out of order at Baker Street and 221 looked perfectly normal aswell. Carefully checking left and right he got closer, looking at the names, he sighed. “Of course, real danger awaits him at home.”

He rang the bell. No answer. He rang again. Nothing. “Okay, maybe it is dangerous.” John muttered as he remembered that he was ringing the door bell of someone who'd OD'd 5 times before hitting 25. Without much thought he rang the neighbour. 

The neighbour turned out to be an elder lady with a warm smile and flour on her apron. “Oh, hello, dear, you must be Dr. Watson.” 

“Erm...” John glanced up and down the street again. “Yes...” what rabbit hole had he fallen into?

“Sherlock told me you'd come by. C'mon in, dear. Just up the stairs. He never answers his door, not that he gets that many visitors, other than that Detective Inspector.” She kept chatting cheerily while ushering John into the hall. “Just the other day, I found his phone in my freezer. He said it wouldn't stop ringing.” She shook her head with a fond smile, “Such a brilliant mind, but no room for the simplest things. Well, up you go, I'm sure he's already waiting for you.” 

And then she left for what John assumed was her flat, still going on about the pie she had in the oven. It took John a moment to move after being first rushed, pushed and talked to as if he had been there for the thousandth time only then to be abandoned just as abruptly. Once he started to limp up the stairs one humiliating step at the time, his mind returned to what he was about to find. 

Did Sherlock really expect him? And if so, why? Would he find him high as a kite? Would he find him covered in vomit? Would he have to explain an ambulance (or worse) to the friendly neighbour that seemed to think so highly of Sherlock? How long has it been since the last text? How bad could it be if he was still able to text?

Finally John pushed open the door and after a quick scan of the cluttered but comfy flat, he found Sherlock. A breath (not yet a sigh) of (not quite yet) relief left John when he saw the man dressed impeccably, lounging on the couch and most importantly breathing deeply. That moment was gone so quickly that John didn't even notice just how much (and irrational) relief he felt. He did, however, notice Sherlock's posture, lying on his back, right hand pressing down on his left forearm, eyes closed, a minimalistic smile tugging at one corner of those plush lips. 

“What _the hell_ are you doing?” John barked.

Sherlock didn't even have the decency to flinch slightly and instead just slowly blinked his eyes open. 

“Nicotine patch.” he rumpled with that deep baritone, letting his arm fall and reveal a ligth brown patch to John. “Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork.”

“Well, it's good news for breathing.” Yes, John, breathe, he thought while fighting down a hysterical giggle. Sherlock was fine. His pupils were adequately dilated for the light in the room, no tremors, no puncture marks (as far as John could see), no slur to his speech. He did look a bit too pale and a bit too thin but for all John knew, that's what he always looked like. 

“Mhm, breathing's boring.” Sherlock declared and steepled his fingers below his chin.

The silence stretched as John waited for an explanation. He stared down at his almost-patient, determined to not be the first to crack. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep quiet.

“Well?” he finally snapped after what felt like ten minutes of awkward silence (98 seconds in reality).

Sherlock just raised an elaborated eyebrow.

“You did ask me to come.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth but now that he had started, John did have a thing or two to say. “Actually, you basically ordered me to come. Not only did you ruin my date, how the hell you did that I don't even want to know, but you manipulated me into coming here. Implying that you're not ok, especially to a doctor, someone who knows about your fucked up past is...”

Sherlock one more opened his mouth but was again ignored as John settled for a word. “...not good! Sherlock, I was expecting basically anything when I walked through that door.”

“But you didn't expect this.”

John just looked confused at this.

“You didn't expect me to be manipulative? You didn't expect me to exaggerate, imply or whatever you want to call it, just to lure you here? You didn't expect me to selfishly ruin the night for you and a fallback plan for your date, just to get you interested in me? You didn't expect such behaviour from me, a drug addict and attention whore?”

For several seconds John could only gape at him. 

“I do know what to expect.” John said, finally, calmly now. “but it doesn't mean I can't get angry at you for it. You're not my patient, I don't have to put up with your shit.”

Sherlock sat up now, staring at John with such intencity that the doctor almost took a step back. 

“Mhm, interesting.”

John frowned when Sherlock suddenly smiled. However before he could ask about it, the younger man stood from the couch, thrusting a news paper into John's hands. 

“What do you think?”

Bewildered John looked down at the paper. “What, about those suicides?”

“Four, John, four suicides, exactly the same. I presumed as a psychiatrist this would interest you.”

“Well, there's certainly something interesting about mass suicides, professionally speaking, but this wasn't mass suicide.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock nodded, but John didn't get it yet.

“Exactly what? It's just four suicides with the same kind of poison. They weren't connected.”

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair in despair. “Wrong, wrong, wrong! Four suicides by gun, that might be unconnected. But four suicides with a synthesized poison that's hard to detect and almost instantly deadly?”

John frowned. “You think it's murder?” he looked down at the paper again. “Four people with nohing in common, no sign of depression noticed by their close relatives and friends, a poison, designed especially for this. If it were suicide, why try to hide it? Why going through the trouble at all. There are plenty of things that can kill you quickly, painlessly...Jesus, it was murder.”

Sherlock looked like a five year old on Christmas morning. “Well done, John, very well done. I pointed all this out to the Yarders and they didn't reach this conclusion yet.”

“So, what now? I agreed with you that it was murder. I'm sure that's not why you needed me to come.” John asked.

“No. I need you to help me prove a point.” Sherlock said while grabbing his coat and rushing out the door.


	3. Consultant bringing Consultant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes John to talk to Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't realize how difficult it is to rewrite something without changing too much. Have to be carefull about what to change and what to keep. 
> 
> I actually used google maps to determine how far away NSY was from Baker Street. Now I know why Sherlock wanted to move there.
> 
> It's a really short chapter, but I wanted to make a cut here so I can have the next chapter be all about our boys.

Fifteen minutes later, after a cab ride spent in total silence, John stood in front of New Scotland Yard. 

“What the hell am I doing here?”

He wasn't even sure whether the question was meant for Sherlock or for himself. 

“As I said, helping me prove a point.” Sherlock answered with exasperation clear in his voice. “I hate to repeat myself.”

“Sherlock.” John said, stopping the man from entering with a hand on the younger man's arm. “Look, I don't know what you plan to do, hell I don't even know what you do for a living, but I know nothing about criminal investigations!”

“But you do know things about suicide, John.” Sherlock pointed out. “I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world, I invented the job. I come in when the police are out of their depth, which is always,” he spoke as if he'd was rattling off prepared lines, either because he had to explain himself a lot, or because he wanted to make people understand without wasting too much time, “and right now they are so much out of their depth that they don't even recognize a murder!”

“Ah.” John nodded to himself. “They didn't even ask you to help, did they?”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the doctor.

“Well, I'm not a copper, but if some amateur told me that I'm out of my depth in my field of work, I wouldn't listen, and believe me with smart phones and Google, every other patient thinks they know more than me. They didn't ask you to help and that's why you want me to tell them that it was murder.” John answered with a shrug.

“Amateur?” Sherlock hissed through his teeth. “Just this morning you called my deductions amazing and now you call me an amateur?”

John sighed deeply, “Sorry, I didn't mean to insult you. The thing is, you said it yourself. You invented your job. Nobody was crying out for a consulting detective. I'm not trying to say you're not good at it, you probably are, and obviously they do let you help with cases, since you were involved in Serga's arrest this morning, but if they don't ask for your help you can't force it down their throats.”

Sherlock nodded after a long moment. “It's just...people are dying, John. Four already have and there are more to come. I know I can help, I know I can make this stop if they only let me see the evidence.” His voice took on a pleading tone. “Please, just...tell them your professional oppinion. Not for me, but for those people that _we_ could save.” 

“Damn it.” John gritted and started moving towards the entrance. “You owe me big times for this!”

As he entered the NSY first, he couldn't see Sherlock's smug grin.

 

~°~

The Yard was almost deserted, as you would expect at 10 o'clock in the evening, but there still was light in the office Sherlock was heading to. The man behind the desk had silver hair – more than his age could account for – and tired eyes. When he looked up at Sherlock and John entering he rolled his eyes. “No! Not after the stunt you pulled at the press conference.”

“I only confirmed what everbody was thinking.” Sherlock said calmly and sat in one of the chairs. “This is Dr. John Watson. Psychiatrist at St. Barts. Specialist on suicides.” 

John bit back a comment on the slight exaggeration. He was still in fucking residency, barely anywhere near being called a specialist, hell he still had a hard time calling himself a psychiatrist with his meager experience in the field. 

“Are you kidding me?” the man asked. “The consultant bringing in another consultant!”

“Would it be better if I waited outside.” John asked, clearly he had no reason to be here.

“No!” Sherlock said strongly. “Lestrade, just listen to him.”

The grey haired man – Lestrade as John now knew – kept staring at Sherlock for a long moment.

“Damn it, I don't know why I'm always doing this...Dr. - what was it?” he now adressed John.

“Watson.”

“You're a psychiatrist? Genuinely? If you two are making this up...” Lestrade started to threaten but John raised a hand in a calming gesture.

“I am a psychiatrist at St. Barts. And I have to admit, I do see Sherlock's point. I realize that your evidence points towards suicide in these cases, and I'm sure you have taken every precaution to assure that presumption forensically,” John knew that he was basically brown nosing now, but he couldn't help but wanting to help Sherlock out, even though he didn't know why, “psychologically it doesn't make a whole lot of sense, though. Unless you have information that you haven't shared yet, none of the victims showed any sign of depression, and while it's not unheard of, it is quite the coincidence that four people suddenly snapped and then went on to kill themselves in the exact same manner, don't you think.”

Lestrade leaned back in his chair. “We are under no illusion that somehow these suicides are connected, we just haven't found said connection yet.”

“Because it is the murderer!” Sherlock intervened. “Can't you see what's right in front of you?”

“Unless we find anything to hint that someone else but the victims were at those scenes or in anyway involved, there's nothing we can do, Sherlock!”

“Let me see the crime scene photos. Surely you have missed something!” 

Lestrade shook his head but for some reason John knew that this would go on until Sherlock got his way, so he tried to mediate.

“What's the harm in letting him look at those photos, though?” he asked. “He was involved in an arrest just this morning, so obviously you work with him sometimes. Why not this time?”

“You've never worked with Sherlock, have you?” Lestrade inquired.

“Um, no, why?” John was taken aback, was there something he should know before standing up for Sherlock?

However Lestrade just grinned humorlessly. “Well, you wouldn't ask what could be the harm if you've ever worked with him.” then he sighed. “Screw it, we're as stuck as we could be and the press is giving me hell.” he pulled a memory stick from his drawer, holding it out to Sherlock. “You'll inform me of anything progress and you will not wonder off on your own. And for god's sake, Sherlock, do not make a repeat of last month. My ears are still ringing from the shouting I got.”

The grin on Sherlock's face spoke of anything but agreeing to Lestrade's conditions, and so openly that even John, who barely knew Sherlock, knew there was no way he'd stick to them. 

John was sure that Sherlock wanted to see those photos as soon as humanly possible. The man had a certain air of control freak about him, so John prepared to go home to his depressing flat. He didn't want to admit it, but at least this meeting with Sherlock had been unusual. 

“You didn't finish your meal.” Sherlock said, stated, really, as it was definitely not a question.

“Didn't feel like sticking around any longer after it was clear she was, how had you put it, keeping me on the hook?” John replied, all of a sudden realizing that he was actually really hungry.

“There's a good Italian restaurant not far from here,” Sherlock said while flagging down a cab. Apparently the man had a magic cab-calling hand to add to his talents, John thought as he watched Sherlock open the door. “Coming?”

“Um, yeah...” John shook himself out of the stupor and followed Sherlock once more blindly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all know what dinner is coming up next, right? Cause if you don't, what the hell are you doing here?


	4. Propositions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes John to a dinner that will change everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously we all know what dinner this is, but you might notice that I made some tinsy tiny changed to the original story line here. Barely noticably, really. 
> 
> By the way, if you haven't noticed already, I do try to stick to John's perspective here.

John started to question whether Sherlock had somehow managed to drug him. Here he was, following this man into an Italian restaurant. What the hell was going on? This morning Sherlock was just an interesting case at the hospital, then he turned out not to be a patient but under cover. He had ruined John's date, ordered him across the city, somehow got him involved with the police and now they were going to have dinner as if they were long lost friends just catching up? John realized he should just call it a night, take a shower and go to bed, but he simply couldn't. There was something about Sherlock that made him abandon logic and just follow.

The restaurant was indeed nice. Small but warm and Sherlock actually greeted the waiter they met at the door, showing them an open table. John had just opened his mouth to ask what they were doing there, when another waiter appeared at their table.

“Sherlock! So good to see you!” He clapped the detective on the shoulder. “Everything you want on the house, for you and your date!” he exclaimed, causing John's mouth to drop.

“I'm not his date.” he said automatically, but took the offered menu nevertheless.

“This man!” The waitor continued. “He saved me once!”

“This is Angelo.” Sherlock enlighted John, “I got him off a murder charge by proving that he was in a different part of town house breaking.”

“If it wasn't for him, I'd have gone to prison.” Angelo added dramatically but Sherlock frowned at him.

“You did go to prison.”

“I'll get a candle for the table!” Angelo continued, ignoring Sherlock's correction. “It's more romantic.”

“I'm not his date!” John called after him but the Italian had already vanished. He sighed and instead looked at the menu, only belatedly noticing that Sherlock was staring at him over steepled fingers instead of checking the menu himself. “What?”

“I have a proposition to make.” Sherlock finally admitted after several seconds of silence. 

“Ok...” John swallowed dryly. Would his exclamation of “not his date” turn into a lie any second?

“I'm in need of a flatmate. Mrs. Hudson gives me a special deal because I helped her out when her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. However, it is a prime spot and still not exactly cheap.” Sherlock explained.

“So?” John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously you're dreading to go home to your own flat, as you have nothing better to do than to follow an almost complete stranger through the city. You have seen my flat. Would you be interested?”

Although Sherlock couldn't have made it any more clear, the coin took an annoyingly long time to drop for John. “Oh, you're asking me...um, well, it is a nice flat...”

“There's a second bedroom upstairs from the main flat. That would be yours then as I have already moved into the other one.” Sherlock continued. “I'm sure I don't need to warn you that I'm not the easiest person to live with.”

“No, I think I've gotten the picture.” John grinned. This evening actually turned out to be quite good. 

 

The food arrived with even more flattery from Angelo and then John was eating a truly delicious meal in silence. He'd asked Sherlock why he wasn't ordering anything and for some reason the “digestion slows me down” explanation didn't really surprise him. One look at the detective was more than enough to know that his eating habits were not exactly healthy. John decided against that argument. When they were going to live together he'd have plenty of opportunity to talk to Sherlock about malnutrition. It was at that thought that John noticed that he had agreed to move in with this man, who he knew next to nothing about.

“So, um...do you have a girlfriend?” he inquired.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Not really my area.”

“Oh,...oh...alright, do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.” John quickly added.

“I know it's fine.” Sherlock replied with slightly narrowed eyes.

“So, you've got a boyfriend?”

“No.” 

“Ok, alright. You're unattached, just like me. Good.” John muttered while glancing at his food. He didn't want to look up and see Sherlock's intense gaze. 

“You needn't worry about too many house guest.” Sherlock said, his eyes now fixed on his mobile instead of John.

“Excuse me?” John asked confused.

“Really, John, you are quite easy to read. Inquiring about my love life, giving me once overs all evening. I can assure you, I consider myself married to my work. I do not have time or intention to enter in any sort of relationship. I did consider casual sex for a while, but the effort to aquire a partner was hardly worth it, plus it's just a distraction.” Sherlock explained as if talking about why he didn't go to a certain coffee shop that had the brand he liked because it wasn't on his route to work.

“So, um, I don't want to intrude here, but you mean you don't have sex...ever?” John asked a bit shocked. This man had sex written all over him. It was in his eyes, his cheekbones, his full lips, that long neck with the teasing mole on the throat, those ridiculously big yet elegant hands. Hell, John had no problem at all to imagine those mile long legs wrapped around him and he was so definitely not gay. 

“As I said, John, it's a distraction. Nothing is more important than the work. I have mastered my biological needs like sleep, food and yes, even sex many years ago.”

“So, you wank a lot.” John assumed with a bit too cheeky grin and when Sherlock shifted just a bit in his chair, he knew he was spot on with that.

“How do you know I'm not asexual?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, for one you admitted you considered casual sex, so you do like sex. Besides, you're not the first person I've met who's withholding sex even from themselves. Some do it to punish themselves, some do it, like you apparently, to push themselves, to get rid of a distraction. If I had to make a guess, I'd say you associate sex with your drug habit, which is not uncommon. Drugs and sex are culturally connected and many former addicts turn to sex as a substitute or stop having sex because it reminds them of the need to get high. Either way, it usually doesn't work out. If you have a sex drive, ignoring it will only make it stronger. Same goes for sleep and food, you know. That's why we call them _needs_ and not _wants_.” John looked at Sherlock for a moment before returning to his meal. “And you're also kind of a wanker.” he grinned around his fork.

Sherlock's chuckle actually surprised John. “Well diagnosed, doctor. Drugs and sex are deeply connected, you're right so far. Sex as a substitute, also a good idea, and I can tell you, it does work for a while. So, if you think a surpressed sex drive will only get stronger, and if someone doesn't want to enter a relationship or search constantly for casual partners, what do you suppose this someone should do?” Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on the table, looking at John with that intensity that sent heat into John's stomach.

“Um...I guess a casual arrangement with someone you know. I believe fuck buddies is the popular term. Friendship with benefits.” John replied through a dry throat.

“Is that so?” Sherlock dug deeper. “And you think such an arrangement can work?”

John swallowed but his mouth was dry as the desert. “If both parties involved are agreeable...if they know what they get themselves involved in...and if neither is secretly looking for something deeper, I guess it can work, sometimes.”

The look Sherlock was giving him right then was downright dirty, John even thought of the word _leering_. 

“Are you quite finished with your meal?” Sherlock asked, his voice like hot honey, John could only manage a nod. “Very well, I'd like to show you your room, then.”

 

It occure to John only weeks later that on that first evening with Sherlock, he had a tendency to space out. His recollection of that rather eventful evening skipped cab rides and probably even conversations during those, people they passed, hell, he couldn't even remember what he ate at Angelo's. All he remembered from the moment they left the restaurant until they entered through the front door at Baker Street were Sherlock's eyes finding his every other moment. 

The next morning he couldn't tell you for the life of him what colour the wallpaper in the hall of 221 was, although he found himself quite close to it, though, granted, with his back as Sherlock crowded him into the wall.

“So, John, what will it be?” Sherlock's breath was hot on John's cheek as the taller man leaned in close without actually touching. All John could see was Sherlock, as the man's hands were either side of John's head, palms pressing into the wall. 

“I- I don't...what...” John felt a blush on his cheeks and a burning in his stomach – or maybe further down.

“Oh, don't start playing coy now, doctor. You knew where this was leading. Make a decision, flatmate, or flatmate with benefits? Can you do that?” He purred in John's ear, making the doctor squirm beneath him.

“I...I'm not gay...” John tried weakly, but he doubted Sherlock wouldn't notice the bulge in his trousers, for god's sake, that man noticed everything.

“I did deduce that, at first, John. So you needn't worry, your heterosexuality is more than obvious. However,” one of Sherlock's hands dropped to the not-so-hetero erection John was sporting, forcing the doctor to bit on his lip to surpress the moan the touch caused, “your attraction to me is equally obvious.” 

The hand remained, even as Sherlock leaned closer to John, close enough that John could feel those damned lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I haven't heard a yes, yet, John. Despite my sociopathic tendencies, I do have a strong rule about consent. Nothing dubious in my bedroom, it makes for too much trouble in the morning and isn't that just tedious...” 

A very unmanly squeak (that John would go on to deny for the rest of his life) left the doctor when Sherlock bit down on his earlope.

“What was that?” Sherlock's voice was enough to make John's knees weak at this point and he wasn't sure if the hand on his groin wasn't all that was holding him up.

“Yes.” John breathed, and if it hadn't been turned off already, the smug smile Sherlock now wore definitely short circuited John's brain.

He seemed to float on a cloud of pleasure, anticipation and something uniquely Sherlock, because while he did see the enviroment change in his peripheral vision, he couldn't remember moving at all until the back of his legs hit a bed. He became acutely aware of the fact that while Sherlock had managed to distract him effectively from the transition hallway to bedroom with his exquisite ministrations on John's ear, jaw and neck, the detective had neglected to actually kiss him yet.

And just then hands cupped his jaw, tilting his head upwards and Sherlock's grey-green eyes seemed to stare right into his soul. “All in good time, John. We do have all night, and trust me, I'm planning on really taking you apart.” 

What then followed was what John started to call The Kiss with capital t and k because it was just that good. Good wasn't even close to describing it ( John stopped trying to find a word for it about two weeks later after basically exhausting both the Oxford English Dictionary and both his hard copy and digital thesaurus ) and it was without a shadow of doubt the single best kiss John had ever gotten in his life (and for a long time after that, as John repeatedly stated to Sherlock's displeasure). Much later, in an usually open (and drunken) conversation with his sister, John would try and pin down what it was that made that kiss so fantastic (nope, not the word either) and came up blank. It wasn't the angle at which his head was held, thumbs on his cheeks, fingers under his jaw. It wasn't first the subtle brush of lips, then the slightest touch of a tongue, tasting him. It wasn't the more hungry press of said lips, the gentle force opening John's lips to the probing tongue. It wasn't John's total lack of dominance in the kiss or the fact that for the first time ever he was the one being seduced. Many years later (and many, many kisses later) John figured out that it was the intensity that was Sherlock. The man had two settings, not interested or obsessed and in that moment, Sherlock was obsessed with giving John the god damned best kiss ever delivered in history of mankind (that at least came close).

It was all a blur to John. One second his brain was sucked out through the pores of his tongue, and the next he was already stark naked, spread eagled on the wide bed and Sherlock went to explore the rest of John's body with the same consuming vigour as before his mouth. When John looked down as every inch of his body was kissed, licked, bitten or stroked (often enough all of the beforementioned) he could see a look of intense concentration on Sherlock's face that he later would only associate with crime scenes and experiments other than John's body. 

He didn't know how much time had passed, and it didn't matter because it was never enough and always too much, and he didn't exactly remember everything that had happened. However he did remember that it ended with him coming with a loud shout deep inside Sherlock, the ridiculously long legs wrapped around him, holding him close and then a rather unsuspectedly soft hand soothing over his hair as he fell asleep still in his new lover's embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the smut is quite vague, but actually that's rather the point as it is from John's POV and as I mentioned, all a bit of a blur. I'm planning on a more elaborate smut scene later on.


	5. Drugs Bust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after and another meating with Scotland Yard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I'm not totally satisfied with this and I rushed through the canonial bits here, but we all know how it went down and what Sherlock's deductions were so it felt rather pointless to do it all over. Besides, isn't it kind of annoying to basically read a transcript? 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy, there's good stuff to follow.
> 
>  
> 
> Will you catch the hint at Mystrade? Usually I'm not a Mystrade shipper, but for some reason it amuses me in this AU. If you didn't catch it, Lestrade knows something he shouldn't. Go find it and you'll get a hypothetical cookie. By the way, there won't be any explicit Mystrade, metions at best, so if you don't ship it, no reason to stop reading.

Morning came with a massive emotional hangover for John. The second he opened his eyes and figured out where he was, picture of the previous night started to flood his mind and consequently overwhelmed him. 

The bed beside him was empty, and while he was thankful for that in his sudden panic attack, he would wonder for many years if it had been different waking up next to Sherlock. As it was John's stomach clenched violently as his life was suddenly turned upside down. Not only had he agreed to move in with a man he barely knew, a not so very psychologically stable man, the psychiatrist in him added, he had also apparently agreed to enter in a casual sex arrangement with said man. He's had sex with a man. 

He stumbled out of bed, rapidly dressing – without his underwear, god knows where those were and frankly he didn't care all that much right then, and then left the bedroom as if it was filled with a toxic gas. Only in front of the door he was able to breathe again, though, only for a second, because then he spotted Sherlock, perched on the leather arm chair like a gargoyle, fingers in the signature steeple, staring at a pink suitcase.

“John, come look at this.” The detective cut through the doctor's frantic thoughts of _Jesus, am I gay now?_ and _how can I possibly go on living with him now?_ and others along those lines. 

“What?” John asked breathlessly, his heart beating staccato in his chest.

“I've reviewed the pictures of the crime scenes and as expected, those idiots missed something. It was obvious as day that the last victim, Jennifer Wilson had a suitcase with her, however the suitcase was nowhere to be found according to Lestrade, who was not very thankful for me calling him at three thirty in the morning, as he pointed out. That man clearly missed his true calling as a walking and talking clock, given how many times he's told me the time unasked. Anyway, the murderer clearly took her suitcase, which had to be pink, so very self-evidently. Statistically our murderer is more likely to be a man, and a man with a pink suitcase is very remarkable, so he had to get rid of it. Most likely he brought her to the crime scene in a car and therefore took the suitcase with him in the same car, so I looked for alley ways broad enough for a car and found it within an hour. It's simply ludicrious that the so called professionals cannot come to such transparent conclusions from such straightforward leads.”

John didn't really hear any of that, of course, as he was currently supporting himself against the door frame, breathing hard and trying not to black out or vomit – or possibly both. 

“Something's missing from this suitcase, John! Look at it.”

“Sherlock, I'm really not in the right mind to play detective with you!” John shouted. “Are you really going to pretend yesterday didn't happen?”

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. “Many things happened yesterday, John, and I wasn't aware that I was pretending that any of it hadn't.”

“We had sex, Sherlock! You and me! I had sex with you! In your bed! After I agreed to move in with you! You, you seduced me!” John kept on screaming so Sherlock stood from his chair.

“Calm down!” He said with authority in his voice. “Mrs. Hudson doesn't need to be aware of all this. Besides, I remember quite clearly that you gave me informed consent, I'm sure that phrasing should mean something to you as a doctor. You knew precicely what you were in for, even before we arrived at Baker Street. I asked for explicit consent to avoid precicely this. So, John, my offer still stands. You could be my flatmate, my flatmate with benefits or you can walk away and never see me again.” Sherlock straightened a bit, looking at John down his nose in a most superior way. “I have work to do, so if you don't mind, have your sexual identity crisis and come to your decision elsewhere.”

John gaped at the man. Did he really just send him off to freak out somewhere else? 

“You really are a wanker.” John muttered while turning to the stairs.

“You already mentioned that last night.” Sherlock informed him coldly, without looking up from the suitcase.

“Yeah, probably because you really are!” John called back. He climbed the stairs to where he assumed was his bedroom. His legs felt very unsteady and he didn't trust himself to go out in public right then. He didn't really notice the sparcely furnished room before he collapsed onto the bed, his head in his hands. It took him hours to even start forming coherent thoughts again but finally he started to make a decision.

What the hell was he doing here? What had happened that his life all of a sudden tilted on its axis like this? Well, the answer to that at least was easy. Sherlock. That man had stormed into his life and took over like a hurricane. A damn sexy hurricane. John sighed.

Sexual identity crisis aside, the man was brilliant and hot. John could do a lot worse. Well, obviously he was a class A jerk but John had dealt with enough jerks in his life to work around that. He had the feeling that even without sex – and that had been bloody fantastic – life with Sherlock wouldn't be boring. That one evening he spent with him, John had felt more alive than since his return from Afghanistan. So, what if he moved in with him? And what if he had sex with him? Just two men taking care of their biological needs. Who needs labels anyway and John always thought of himself as open minded, so why not? If ordinary life wasn't working out for – and it really wasn't – he'd have to take the unusual route and if that meant living with and shagging a male genius, damn fine with him.

Satisfied with his decision John reached for his cane to inform Sherlock, only to reach for nothing. His cane wasn't leaning against the bed, and now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember using it since they had entered the restaurant last night. A grin broke on his face. “Bastard.”

 

~°~

 

John practically jumped down the stairs, his leg feeling completely fine, a huge grin plastered on his face, which froze when he waltzed into the living room and found Lestrade sitting in Sherlock's leather chair.

“Dr. Watson.” he said surprised. “Not exactly what I was expecting.”

John turned and saw several unknown people standing in the kitchen, correction sifting through the kitchen. 

“What's going on here? Where's Sherlock?”

“Dunno,” Lestrade replied. “We came and he wasn't here. Landlady opened up. And this, is a drugs bust.” 

“A drugs bust?” John asked, glancing around again. “Mind telling me why you suddenly feel the need to arrest Sherlock?”

“See this?” Lestrade asked, pointing at the pink suitcase on the chair in front of him. “Sherlock called me last night at an unholy hour, asking me about a suitcase. I know him well enough by now to figure out that he'd find it. This,” Lestrade pointed at the suitcase, “is evidence, Dr. Watson. And you probably remember under which conditions I let Sherlock see the photos, right?”

John sighed. “So, is this how you always work with him? He goes and ignores you and you bully him with drug searches?”

“Not always.” Lestrade shrugged. “Most of the time he shows up at a crime scene, looks at it for two minutes and then tells me who the murderer is. He's brilliant, he really is, and many perps would still be out there if it wasn't for him, but that's not his motivation. He knows that if we don't do this right, the cases get blown in court for formalities, and he even knows that some of his cases have, but he doesn't care. Once the mystery is solved, he barely asks about it later.”

“Why are you telling me this?” John asked.

“Look, I know you were the doctor treating him when he pretented to OD for Serga's arrest. I have no idea how you ended up helping him convince me, or why you then went on to dinner with him and now apparently spent the night in the bedroom upstairs. I'm guessing that he did it the same he always does. There is something magnetic about him, but sooner or later you will realize that he's not the man you thought he was. We all had that moment of realisation. I just thought I'd give you a heads up.” Lestrade answered, if only he knew that his little speech was what made John's decision to stay with Sherlock final. 

“I think I'll see for myself.” John said firmly, the same moment as there were footsteps running up the stairs.

“What the hell are you doing, Lestrade?” Sherlock barked.

“It's a drugs bust!” Lestrade announce once more cheerfully. “We both know why we're here, Sherlock. You cannot withhold evidence! How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“I'm not your sniffer dog!” Sherlock fumed.

“No, Anderson's my sniffer dog.” Lestrade agreed, and behind the kitchen door, a man with a long face and black hair gave Sherlock a wave.

“Anderson! You're not even on the drug's squad!”

“They're all not technically on the drug's squad, but they're very keen.” Lestrade grinned, as a dark skinned woman appeared next to Anderson.

“So, you finally got yourself a shrink then?” she said, the disdain very audible in her voice. “Live in therapist, gotta be a new one. Then again, freak like you could use it.”

Anderson grinned at her, while Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. The two then went on to make jokes about Sherlock for about five minutes, pointing out that eyes in a jar in a microwave were sick and using the word freak about fifty times, until finally John snapped.

“That's enough!” He roared, and there was absolute silence, one of the officers that used to be in the army even stood at military attention out of habit at the tone John used. “You know what I have to see every day? People who tried to kill themselves because they were bullied. People so deep in depression that they can hardly get up from the bed to use the bathroom because they were constantly put down by others. I would expect a little more sensitivity from Scotland Yard employees but you two insist on making fun of him just because he's different? Call him a jerk, a wanker or a bastard and I don't give a fuck, because frankly, he's all of that, but if you ever use the word freak in my presense again, I'll give you more than a few chosen words. Did I make myself clear?”

Both Anderson and the woman – Sherlock later informed him that it was Sally Donovan – gaped at John for the whole of 47 seconds (Sherlock had counted) and then nodded dumbly. Sherlock grinned at their expression, but stopped when John turned to him.

“And you! Stop acting like a spoiled child that never learned to share. That man lets you help with cases, which he doesn't have to do. Be a bit grateful and tell him everything you know so far. Maybe all you care about is the mystery but there are lives at stake here and you're not a one-man show!” John took a deep breath to calm his nerves. 

Sherlock simply stared at him for about twenty seconds. “John, I don't-”

“I don't think I gave you a choice or asked you for your oppinion, Sherlock.” John said firmly. 

Sherlock opened his mouth once more but John just tilted his head slightly in a 'don't you dare' way, so the detective turned to Lestrade, explaining his deductions about the latest victim, Jennifer Wilson, her string of lovers, the suitcase and her missing cell phone faster than should be possible. 

“I thought she might have planted the phone on the killer, so I texted. They panicked and called back. I tried to lure them to a location but it didn't work, was a wide shot anyway.” Sherlock finished.

“Why would she plant her phone? What's the point of that?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock started to pace the living room. “Did you find out who Rachel was, as I told you?” Sherlock then inquired.

“Ah, yeah, nearly forgot because you told me in the middle of the night.” Lestrade muttered annoyed. “Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's daughter. She's dead though.”

“Perfect, it has to be connected, how did she die, when, where?” Sherlock asked excited.

“She's been dead for fourteen years, Sherlock. She was stillborn.” Lestrade explained.

The detective frowned, stopping in his pacing. “Why would she still care?” There was an awkward silence, so even Sherlock noticed his mistake. “Not good?”, he muttered to John.

“A bit not good, yeah.” John replied quietly.

“Yeah, why would she think of her daughter in her last moments. You're right, Dr. Watson, definitely a wanker.” Anderson threw in from her door.

“She didn't think of her! She scratched her name into the floor with her fingernails!” Sherlock shot back annoyed. “It would have hurt, taken effort.” He then turned to John. “Think! If you were about to be murdered, what would your last words be?”

“Please, God, let me live.” John answered flatly.

“Oh, be creative.” Sherlock voiced his displeasure with John's answer, but the doctor held his gaze.

“I don't have to.” John could see the coin drop in Sherlock's head and he actually thought he saw Sherlock's eyes soften slightly.

“But if you were clever, really clever,” the younger man went on after a short pause, “Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers, she was clever...” suddenly he stared off into space. “Oh, OH! Stupid! Stupid!”

He rushed to his laptop, opening it. “She didn't have a notebook with her, so she did business on her phone. It's a smartphone and smartphones have GPS!” While talking he open a website, “her phone number is her user name and Rachel...”

“Is her password.” John finished awed.

“Exactly. Once it's loaded we'll have the location of the cell phone and likely of our killer.” Sherlock smirked.

“Incredible.” John breathed, “you're just incredible.”

Sherlock didn't acknowledge John's flattery but John thought he saw the smirk get a little wider.

Mrs. Hudson appeared on the stairs. “Sherlock, your cab's here.”

“I didn't order a cab!” Sherlock retorted and kept staring at the laptop. “No...no, this is not right...”

“What is it?” John asked.

“It's here. 221 b Baker Street, but that's not possible.” Sherlock replied.

“Maybe it fell out of the suitcase when you carried it in.” Lestrade offered.

“And I didn't notice? Me?” Sherlock questioned furiously. “No, it's not-” He straightened, glancing towards the window. “I need some fresh air.” And without waiting for anyone to acknowledge, Sherlock left the flat.


	6. Battle Mode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John follows Sherlock after leaving the drugs bust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been busy this week, and honestly, this turned out a bitch to write. One or two more chapters on the study in pink and I'm definitely going on. This AU is really great and I have some good ideas where to go with it.

John couldn't help but be suspicious when Sherlock left the flat, filled with police officers, all of a sudden. The way he had glanced towards the kitchen – and the officers within – multiple times during his explanation, Sherlock couldn't possibly be comfortable with police going through his stuff. As sure as John was that Sherlock hadn't been under any sort of influence since he's met him, he was almost as sure that somewhere in Sherlock's flat were drugs. 

So when John stepped to the window to see Sherlock first chat with a cabbie and then actually get into the cab, a bad feeling seetled in his gut.

“Sherlock just got into a cab.” He informed Lestrade, but Donovan was the one to react.

“Yeah, he does that. Just wanders off when he gets bored. He always gets bored, you know. Psychopaths do that.” She called over to him but John wasn't listening. 

He couldn't explain why he did it, and every time he'd tell this story to anyone they'd ask why he had, but after the cab was out of sight, John went over to the laptop and hit refresh on the GPS location. One part of him expected the icon to still point at Baker Street, while another part of him, a part of him that really had to hold back to not instinctively reach for the gun holster at his hip that he hadn't worn since he got carried off the battlefield in Afghanistan, that part knew it wouldn't. And it didn't.

“Fuck!” He swore and everybody stopped to look at him. “It's the cabbie! It has to be. The signal is moving, the same direction the cab with Sherlock took off.”

“Sherlock's got the phone. He's made a dick out of you again, Lestrade! He's the killer! He also had the suitcase!” Anderson threw in from the kitchen door.

John never heard Lestrade's reply to that, and frankly, he really didn't care. His mind was back in battle mode, everything unnecessary, like Lestrade and Anderson, was not getting through and he zoned in on what he had to do. 

_Get the gun. Where was it? He took it with him when he came to Baker Street yesterday after Sherlock vague promise of danger. He didn't have it now so he must have left it in Sherlock's bedroom. Get it, now!_

He moved towards the bedroom, shouldering past Anderson with a too hard shove to be considered accidental and yet truly unconscious the same moment the man had spoken the word 'suitcase'. The gun was on top of the nightstand, Sherlock hadn't bothered to put it away and obviously the officers weren't really looking because clearly, the bedroom would be a good place to start looking. John should have felt lucky for it but his mind was working minimum distraction. The cold metal of the gun against the small of his back calmed John further.

_Report. Laptop. Cab. Sherlock._

He walked out into the living room.

“Sherlock's in a black cab. They were going north.” He barked towards Lestrade, who in turn barked orders at the officers in the room, while taking the laptop and moving towards the stairs. “I will check in with more information.” He was vaguely aware of Lestrade calling something after him but he was already running down the stairs.

_Flag a cab. Current direction. Refresh GPS. Turn left. Refresh GPS. Roland Kerr Further Education College. Call police. Get out of cab. Decide which of the two buildings. Right. Check the rooms._

John ran through the building, glancing into every room he passed and then he saw it. Through the window, he could see into the other building, one room lit, two men, one facing him, plain clothes, hat, just another face. The man facing away was most recognizable. The dark curls, the dark coat. Sherlock. 

_They're talking. What are they talking about. Sherlock's holding something against the light. What is it? Pull gun. Take aim. Wait. It's a pill. He'll swallow it. It's the poisoned pill and Sherlock is about to take it. He WILL die. Shoot._

The moment the shot rang out and cabbie fell the spell was broken. The danger was gone and John's mind returned to normal with a slam. He had killed a man. Not an innocent man, certainly not, but a human being nonetheless. Not the first either. Not a faceless uniform, though. And not out of the sheer act of self preservation. Kill or get killed. Kill or Sherlock will get killed. He had killed for Sherlock. The man he had agreed to move in with after knowing him a day. The man he had sex with after knowing him a day. It was not a casual arrangement. Not anymore. Never was. 

John surpressed the rising panic with everything he had. He needed to get out of here. He could already hear the sirenes of the arriving police. _Run._

 

~°~

 

By the time John stepped up to the police tape, watching Sherlock sit in the back of an ambulance with an orange shock blanket around his shoulders, the doctor had managed to assume a calm exteriour. He had listened to Sally Donovan tell him what had happened, surpressing to grit his teeth when he heard that the cabbie had simply challenged Sherlock to pick the right pill. Idiot. Behind his calm facade, he was anything but stable. He could feel the tremor in his hand more than ever, trying not to think about how steady his hand had been during the shot. His leg was acting up right then again and his shoulder hurt like hell. He knew he was in for a night filled with gorey images of fallen soldiers and the sound of gunfire and bombs going off. And yet, when he should be worried about being found out by all the law enforcement gathered here, when he should feel bad about taking a life in cold blood, all he could do was worry about whether Sherlock was ok. 

He watched him talk to Lestrade, stand while doing so, and then their gazes met for the tinies part, John broke the eye contact just as quickly, but he knew Sherlock had figured it out. Any minute now there would be hand cuffs.

Instead the detective walked over, tossing the shock blanket into the police car John stood next to. Did he really not see it? John couldn't help but snort, part relief, part disbelieve.

“Sergeant Donovan's been explaining...Two pills? Dreadful business. Dreadful.” He tried to talk lightly, but knew he failed.

Sherlock just fixed him with an intense stare, and the slightest smirk. “Good shot.” 

John swallowed. “Yes, must have been, through that window.”

“You'd know.” Sherlock said, still not taking his eyes off John. “We need to get rid off the powder burns, I supposed you wouldn't serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case.”

John could help but laugh. 

“What?” Sherlock asked slightly confused.

“Nothing, it's just...it's been crazy two days.” John answered.

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Yes.” He looked down and shuffled slightly, uncharacteristically nervous, which made John frown. “Crazy is...you're a psychiatrist so, I believe crazy is right up your street, isn't it?”

John grinned, “You know what? I guess it is.”

Sherlock now grinned aswell. “Dinner?”

“Starving.” John replied.

 

~°~

 

Dinner was a quiet affair. John never felt particularly chatty when coming down from an adrenaline high. Sherlock seemed exstatic and actually ate this time, so John was quite happy to just eat and watch Sherlock radiating energy from the corner of his eyes. It was a beautiful sight, too. The detective seemed calm, yet barely able to contain himself. John could see the struggle and then the breaking point when Sherlock suddenly began to relay all his deduction about Jeffery Hope and his sponsor at the speed of light. Sherlock looked so happy and content, in a way John had never seen him. He quietly wondered if this was how Sherlock looked after orgasm, too, because he'd been too out of his mind after his own to remember. 

And then, as sudden as Sherlock had started to speak, he was silent and there was that look in his eyes, oh boy, John remembered that look, and he felt sure that he soon wouldn't have to wonder what Sherlock looked like after orgasm. 

“Let's go home.” The detective basically purred, the voice alone enough to make it impossible for John to stand up right then. The implications were more than clear and John found himself trembling with anticipation and not a bit of panic, which confused him a bit. 

“Sherlock...” John tried to start the conversation they needed to have, he really did, but Sherlock cut him off.

“You don't need to explain, John. You lived through a sexual identity crisis, not the first I witnessed, I assure you. I was aware that you had never been with a man before, and I should have taken that into account. I meant it when I said that I find the fuzz about consent in the morning tedious, but I didn't consider that it wasn't the consent that was the problem. You did want to have sex with me, in the morning you had to come to terms with that fact. However, I do think you have learned something vital about me. When I work, it's my top priority. Last night I made an exception, I took you to dinner and then to bed because you are fascinatingly contradictious. Which is amongst the reason why I want to take you to bed right now aswell. You can't expect such exceptions in the future, though. Now, you tried to start a conversation about our arrangement which is entirely unnecessary. We already sat up the parameters yesterday and nothing has changed. You came to terms with your attraction to me before Lestrade so rudely invaded our home. You also realized you hadn't used your cane – I retrieved it from Angelo, by the way, it is in the hall at Baker Street. So, are you ready to go home?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John's dumbstruck expression.

“Um, yeah.” He replied hoarsely.


	7. Involvement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit is payed to 221b Baker Street and John has to come to term with his new living situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of Study in Pink AU.
> 
> I'm going on to work on The Blind Banker.
> 
> Sorry the promised smut didn't appear, it just didn't feel right.
> 
> I have changed the title as it became obvious that the title was more suitable for the series and this was a better pick for the story. I'm currently working on the last chapter and then I'll go on the The Blind Banker, so yes, a lot more to come.

Sunday morning, John woke once more alone in Sherlock's bed. He felt sore but in a good way and he had slept for nearly twelve hours without a nightmare, which susprised him after the last two days. He supposed everything should surprise him about this particular morning. Not only did he wake in the bed of a men he barely knew for the second time, but it just didn't bother him. He wondered briefly if he had used up his contingent of surprise in the last two days, because when he finally worked himself out of bed and then out of the bedroom, he really was not surprised to find not Sherlock but an utterly strange man sitting in the red armchair. 

Technially it really wasn't surprising that John would encounter people he didn't know now that he lived with that genius madman, and yet John was at attention immidiately. There wasn't anything threatening in the position of the guest – and John decided to keep calling him that until he proved otherwise – and still, even from behind, he did give off a vipe of authority better not to be messed with. 

“Please, do sit down, Dr. Watson.” The man said without turning even sligthly. 

Straightening his back, John didn't even wonder how he knew his name or how he had noticed him. When John walked to the black leather chair his pace might have been called a march. He stood before the strange man in a three piece suit, gently twirling the handle of an umbrella. Cold eyes focused on John and a slight smirk appeared on the otherwise emotionless face.

“Sit.”

“I prefer to stand, thank you.” John replied hard.

“I took the liberty of preparing tea.” The man waved a hand towards a tea tray.

“Not thirsty.” John said. 

“And obviously not interested in exchanging pleasantries. So, I will cut to the chase, if you don't mind.” The man took a sip of tea before continuing calmly. “I have been informed of your prolonged presence at 221b Baker Street.” He produced a notebook from his inner pocket. “In fact, you arrived friday evening at 8.37 pm and have only left in attendance of Sherlock Holmes or as last night in pursuit of him. You have been seen exiting the upstairs bedroom, which suggests that Sherlock has indeed found himself a flat mate,” his eye narrowed on John, “and yet I just witnessed you leaving Sherlock's bedroom, which is explicitely suggestive of something of a very different nature. So, Dr. Watson, please tell me what category you fall into.”

John raised his chin slightly. “Maybe you should start with introductions next time. Why would I answer any of your questions if I don't even know who you are?”

“An interested party.” The man replied with another almost smirk. “I am concerned about Sherlock. Constantly. Therefore I would like to be aware of what kind of arrangement he finds himself with a psychiatrist and ex Army doctor currently in treatment for PTSD.”

John swallowed. “Who the hell are you?”

“Interesting,” the man murmured, indicating his notebook. “Trust issues, it says here. Is it possible you decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people? Enough to not only share a flat but run after him in pursuit of serial killers and share his bed?”

John's hand clenched as he stared down at the man who seemed immune to John's glare.

“I don't need to ask whether you plan on continuing your association with Sherlock, as it's so obvious from your left hand.” 

“What's wrong with my hand?” John gritted through his teeth. 

The man stood and approached John. “Show me.”

John held up his hand. As the man reached out John pulled back, “Don't.”, he warned.

The man simply tilted his head and gave John a slightly amused look. John relented, holding out his hand for the man to inspect. “Fascinating.”

“What?” John asked now truly pissed.

“Most people plunder around the city and all they see are streets and shops and cars,” The man started to wander through the sitting room, “but if you wander with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battle field. You've seen it already.”

“What's wrong with my hand?” John questioned.

“You have an intermittend tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it post traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by the memory of your military service.” John averted his eyes. “Fire her, she's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady, as I'd presume it was last night. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson, you miss it. Welcome back.” the man now really smirked at John.

The doctor took a deep breath and licked his lips. “Ok, listen up.” He said carefully calmly. “You're right. Sherlock has found himself a flat mate. And as that means that this is my flat aswell, I'm just this far away,” he held his index finger and thumb only half an inch apart from eachother, “to kick you out, and I do mean that literally. So, who _the fuck_ are you?”

“I suppose that depends entirely on who and why you'd ask.” The man replied with an air of grandeur. “If you ask Sherlock he might say his arch nemesis. If you asked about my position I would reply that I occupy a minor position in the British gouvernment and you'd be a fool to take me by my words. If you asked whether I'd pose a threat to you, most definitely I'd be one of the most dangerous men you've ever met. As it is, I'd say the answer to your intented question is that I am Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother.”

John frowned. “Sherlock's brother? Why didn't you say so right away?”

“I did want you to get the right impression.” Mycroft replied. “I do worry about my brother, despite what he might tell you. He is not a very social man, and this development,” he glanced towards Sherlock's bedroom, “might pose a problem if he becomes too...involved.” 

John snorted. “Well, I can assure you, your worry is misplaced. Sherlock's not too involved, in fact, he probably couldn't be less emotionally involved.”

“I do hope you're right, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft studies John for a moment. “Although, maybe I really shouldn't be worried about _Sherlock's_ emotional involvement.” He smirked again and moved to the door. “Give him my love, as you'll tell him about my visit anyway.” He said in way of good bye and left John to figure out what the hell he had meant that Sherlock's involvement wasn't the one to worry about. 

 

~°~

 

John had three hours to pounder the implications in that one sentence. 

_Maybe I really shouldn't be worried about Sherlock's emotional involvement._

When Sherlock finally entered the sitting room from whereever he'd been, John had reached his decision.

“What's wrong?” Sherlock asked immidiately, reading John like an open book.

“I think we ought to talk.” John replied, gesturing towards the leather chair for Sherlock to sit opposite him. He continued when the detective had taken the seat. “You're brother sends his love.”

Sherlock snorted. “Right, of course, Mycroft had to get involved. John, whatever he said, ignore him. He's nothing more than a pompous arse.”

“It's not Mycroft's involvement that's the problem.” John answered, noticing he almost quoted Sherlock's brother but moving on. “Sherlock, look, I really do want to move in here. It's a nice flat, I can actually afford my share and I do think we could be friends. The thing is, what I don't think will be working, is this... arrangement.” 

Sherlock took a deep breath. “In case you're worried I might actually develop deeper feelings-”

“I'm not worried that _you_ will.” John interrupted. “The last couple of days have been...I don't even know how to descripe it, Sherlock. This all might be old news to you but for me...I guess if I take everything into consideration, it's quite obvious that casual sex with you will not be working out for me. To be really honest, nothing about the last days has been casual for me. Sherlock, I left a promising date because you told me it wasn't going anywhere. I tricked a police officer into believing I was an expert on suicide just so you'd get your way. I slept with you twice although I've never in my life felt attracted to a man before.” John laughed hollow. “Fuck, Sherlock, I killed a man for you. If that doesn't scream 'not casual' I don't know what does.”

“I'm not sure what you're trying to say.” Sherlock admitted.

“I'm saying that I'd love to be your flat mate, but I can't be your flat mate with benefits. I told you it only works if nobody wants more than that and I guess I kind of do. If we stop this now, I think I can handle it, but I can't let it go any further. So, would you be ok if I was just your flat mate?”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “You mean, sex is off the table?”

“Casual sex is off the table and any other surface you could think of, yes.” John replied.

“But you'd stay as my flat mate.” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.” 

“Would you occasionally come on cases with me?” the detective enquired.

“I guess, if you need my help...yeah, I'd come on cases occasionally.” John answered.

Sherlock nodded slowly. “I suppose the sex with you was rather satisfying, but if you don't see it working...I can live with the new arrangement.”

John smiled shortly. “Ok, good to have to cleared. I'll go and get my stuff then.” John stood from the chair and moving to the door before turning back once more. “I do think this will work out, Sherlock. And thanks for getting rid of my limp.”

“You're welcome.” Sherlock replied and if his tone was sullen, John didn't notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Not) sorry for the break up. Good stuff to come, I promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment and constructive critisism very welcome.


End file.
